


The only time I ever see him

by SocRac



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Are Dead, Emetophobia, Ghosts, Graphic Description of Corpses, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Much like Stephen King im bad at endings, Not Beta Read, Post-Canon, Rated For Violence, im so sorrry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:09:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SocRac/pseuds/SocRac
Summary: It had been 27 hours since Eddie had died, and Richie was a mess.He needed to leave, get as far away from this nightmarish town as possible and get drunk enough to forget he ever remembered, but as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, he noticed something odd. It wasn't the crease in his forehead that ages him 5 years, that was always there, but what was unusual were the eerily familiar hands that didn't belong to him gently resting on his shoulders.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The only time I ever see him

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure to read the warnings before you begin.
> 
> -character death  
> -mentions of past suicide/casual mention of suicide ideation  
> -graphic descriptions of a character death  
> -graphic description of corpses (technically)  
> -vomitting
> 
> Thank you, and i hope you enjoy the story!

Richie was being dragged away from his best friend's corpse.

Fuck, that's not a sentence you get to say everyday. He supposed it was fitting given evverything he'd been through in the past 48 hours. As it turns out, reliving years of repressed trauma in roughly less than a day actually does have a negative impact on your mental health, who would've thought?

He could still hear the sound of It's claw slicing through Eddie's torso, the wet sound of blood as it splattered across his face and drooled from the gaping wound where his stomach used to be. Even so, Richie couldn't bare to let go of the smaller man in front of him and would deny that Eddie was marked for death in that moment for as long as he lived.

The house was coming down and they had to leave now, lest they all be crushed to death by falling debris from everyone's favourite crackhead house, but Richie was more than content to stay in a collapsing building if it meant that Eddie would have someone other than a demonic child-eating clown to share a grave with. Fortunately, Ben and Mike were really on top of their workout schedules and managed to haul his ass out of there. He still resisted them though, right up until the Neibolt house sunk in on itself and cascaded underground. Richie silently thought about all the times he'd told the fucking thing to go to hell and almost laughed because it had finally listened, but he was too busy crying to really do anything with that.

For someone whose job is to make people laugh, he sure cried a lot, huh?

\---

The walk to the quarry was silent. Nobody dared to say a word in fear of causing an argument, or worse, bursting into tears.

It's strange, really. They started out as seven outcasts with nobody to turn to but each other, and ended as five survivours not even able to do that. God, if Richie had anything left in him at that point he would have laughed. /Survivour,/ fucking hell. Just because he survived does not mean he's some kind of brave hero. No, the real heroes ones were the innocent people that died way before they should've for reasons beyond their control.

Eddie. Stan.

Richie was not about to have another breakdown on a cliff, because there were too many 'on edge' jokes he could make and if he didn't make them nobody would. So, instead of crying like a little bitch on land, he lept into dirty water and simply accepted the fact he was very close to crying like a little bitch there.

From the corner of his eye he spotted Bev and Ben emerge from the water, a delicate blush dusted across their cheeks indicating quite clearly what had just happened. He couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy as he watched the pair's embrace. The person he loved was dead and he would never get the chance to say anything. Deep down Richie didn't care what could have happened with Eddie, he very strongly doubted much would've happened in the first place but still, he just wanted him back.

That was when it fully hit him. Eddie was gone and he'd never see him again, he'd never see his way too perfect smile or the crease in his forehead as he tries desperately to convey that Richie's 5th 'your mom' joke of the night was quite possibly the worst one he'd heard yet. Eddie was fucking dead and Richie had watched it happen and he wasn't coming back.

What the fuck.

There comes a point where you have to let yourself have a moment, even if there's people around. So, Richie sat down, wiped his glasses, and began to cry.

\---

Back at the townhouse, Richie and Ben were packing up their things. Well, Ben was packing up and Richie was staring at a wall completely detached from his surroundings and pretending to pay attention to whatever Ben was saying. Something about yachts? It might have been about yachts.

Pretty soon Ben had realised that his friend wasnt listening to a word he was saying, so he put the t-shirt he was folding down and turned to face him.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay, Rich?"

This snapped Richie out of the daze he'd managed to get himself into and forced him to confront the idea of a two sided conversation. Right now? How could he possibly communicate with another human being when all he could picture was the love of his life's blood staining his shirt? Okay, granted, he had changed his clothes as soon as he got into his room, but he could still /feel/ the blood. It was like a fresh burn.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Don't worry your hot little ass about it," He said, forcing himself to grin and look up at the man in front of him.

Ben raised a skeptical eyebrow, but before he could reply Beverly had entered the room holding a mop and brandishing a sturdy pair of washing up gloves.

Richie had been sick in the bathroom during the night because he kept imagining Eddie's body as it contorted around Pennywise's claw in a sick display of gore, so Ben had asked her to bring some cleaning supplies up. It would probably be humiliating if he remembered it happening.

"I brought extra in case there's not enough," Bev explained as she put the mop down and moved further into the room, "how are you guys holding up?"

How were they holding up? Interesting question, Bev. Given the fact they had watched their friend fucking die he could safely assume they were all internally screaming begging for a God few of them believed in to bring him back.

It probably wasn't just him, right?

Ben closed his suitcase and walked over to Beverly, "about as well as you could imagine to be honest, you?"

She shook her head and smiled sadly, "same here."

After that everyone was met with an uncomfortable silence. What could anyone really say that could make this any better? No ammount of reassuring and tender group hugs could ever change the fact that Eddie and Stan were fucking dead and maybe that was something they'd all yet to come to terms with.

After a few seconds, Beverly spoke up, "how about you Richie, you doing okay?"

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell her that no, he was not okay because two of his childhood best friends were dead and one of his shirts still had Eddie's blood on it, but instead he just shrugged and waved a hand at her.

"I'm fine."

It was a short answer, but it seemed to satisfy her, even if she knew it was a lie. What was she supposed to say? _I know that's utter bullshit because I'm about to help our friend wipe your vomit off of the bathroom floor?_ "I'm fine" is usually code for "I don't want to talk about it," anyway, so she left it at that.

"Okay, good."

Beverly turned to Ben and signalled towards the bathroom as she handed him the pair of washing up gloves. It wasn't going to be pleasant, but at least the townhouse won't smell like last nights dinner anymore.

The two walked off and left Richie alone on the bed. He can't say that's a first, really, but we dont have time to unpack all that.

He flopped back onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, knowing damn well if he doesn't find something to distract himself in the next 2 minutes he is either going to cry for another half hour or vomit again and make Ben and Beverly's job worse.

The only problem was he couldn't find it in himself to move. The mattress was comfortable, to be fair, and he was very tired from all the grieving he'd been doing.

_I did it Richie, I think I killed it! I think I_

"Killed it for real," he muttered to nobody in particular.

He silently prayed to all the deities he could think of from the top of his head that he'd fall asleep. He wasn't a religious man by any standard, but fuck if he didn't believe _something_ was out there.

What if Pennywise was God? Did that mean they'd just straight up killed God, and by bullying it to death no less? Although, if God murders people and feasts off of their fear and flesh then they probably deserved to die.

For fucks sake, Richie does not want to get philosophical right now. He wants to sleep and not see gorey visions of his best friend skewered on some alien claw like a human shish-kebab, he just doesnt need that right now.

Then his brain helpfully decided to supply him images of Henry Bowers' skull crushing beneath an axe and oozing blood and matter across the wooden floor of the library. Shit, that was because of him. It's weird how easy it is to forget you killed a guy when you've just ripped out the heart of a demonic clown not even 24 hours ago.

Richie had no idea how long he'd been laying on the bed and staring into space, but based on the way the lighting had dulled from the brightness that came in from his window earlier he assumed it was probably longer than it should've been.

It was a knock at the door that finally snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Richie? Can I come in?" He heard Mike's voice say from the other side.

"Yep, I'm decent. No need to worry about seeing my sexy dad bod."

Yikes, he physically cringed at that one. And his manager wonders why he doesnt write his own material.

The door clicked open as Mike entered holding a cup of... something? It was hot, whatever it was, because he could see the steam trailing as his friend walked towards him and handed him the cup. It smelled nice, and was hopefully just chamomile.

"I brought you some tea, I know things have been difficult since Eddie..." Mike started, but abruptley paused.

Neither of them wanted to say it again, even if it was true, but they didn't have to say much to understand how the other was feeling. Eternal bonds built from common ground and potentially a psychic connection from birth are helpful during the grieving process.

Richie nodded and took a sip from the cup, "thanks, Mikey. I always loved the taste of... uh, scented grass?"

The other man laughed dryly, "yeah, that sounds about right," he paused for a moment before turning his head to lock eyes with Richie, "you know we all love you, right?"

Richie nodded as he took another sip from the mug, "yeah, of course I do. What's not to love, am I right?"

He'd expected Mike to laugh at that, but instead he just smiled sadly at him.

"True enough, Rich."

The two then fell into an odd silence, it wasn't awkward by any means, but it still felt off. It almost felt like the universe was confused and off-balance whenever any of the losers tried to talk to each other now, but nobody would ever really know for sure.

The grieving process is one hell of a bitch, huh?

Mike got off the bed and began to leave, but stopped himself just outside the door to lean back into the room.

"We miss him too, if it's any consolation."

Richie simply nodded and watched his friend close the door, leaving him alone once again.

\---

It was two in the morning when it happened.

Richie had awoken with a sudden jolt, the memories of his dream still fresh on his mind as he surveyed his surroundings.

The blood. God, there had been so much blood and not a drop of it was his, but it was all gone now, right? It was just a dream, as it was the second time it happened. 

Suddenly, Richie felt something build in his throat and immediately knew what was about to happen. He launched himself out of bed and quickly ran into the bathroom, where he threw himself down in front of the toilet bowl. He grabbed the sides of the seat with both of his hands and hurled the contents of his stomach up.

Once he was done he wiped his mouth and clumsily flushed away the evidence of yet another example of his struggling, because this time he didn't fucking miss and have to explain to Bev why he needed a mop at six thirty in the morning. 

He got up and walked over to sink. He splashed his face and washed his hands, but just as he was about to leave the bathroom and go back to bed he caught the sight of his reflection in the mirror.

It was dark, but he could still make out that he was balding, his hairline was almost definitely receeding, and if he squinted he could probably see a few grey hairs. Moving down across his face, Richie noticed his forehead crease and his furrowed brow made him appear to be worried constantly. Okay sure, maybe he did have a lot of things he was concerned about but he'd never call himself a "chronic worrier." His ex-shrink had tried to call it a "high functioning anxiety disorder," but he refused to believe there was a problem. He's the funny guy on TV that makes dick jokes to an audience of forty year old incels, it's impossible for him to be worried about anything.

Then he locked eyes with himself.

They were a harsh brown colour, but he couldnt really see that in the lighting of the room. If anyone else had seen them they'd have described them as 'sad' and 'longing', but what did he have left to long for? A better life? More money? Please, he was Richie Fucking Tozier, world semi-famous comedian with an apartment in LA and a steady career in Doing Jack Shit. He didn't have the right to ask for any more.

But he still wanted something else, of course he did. He wanted something that he'd been praying and hoping for since childhood, but he'd never get it because what he wanted was dead.

Not everyone was as lucky as Ben and Bev.

Richie felt the heat rise on his face as he stared at himself in the mirror. Why did they get to be happy? Why did they get to have their fairytale _fucking_ ending and not him? He could ask these questions forever but he'd never get an answer, and he knew that, but it felt good to inwardly yell out his frustrations with the world, even if it was at the expense of his friends. It's not like they'd ever hear them.

That was when he saw it.

A pair of hands gently cascading across his shoulders, playing with his hair and slowly moving across his face. From behind him, he could see a familiar face staring at him with eyes that had dulled over and paled long ago.

He felt the blood drain from his face 

"Eddie?"

He couldn't believe it, surely he was still asleep and this was all some elaborate dream, right? That's the only thing that would make sense, there was no way what he was seeing was real.

...Except, when the person made eye contact with him and smiled, it didn't feel like an illusion.

It's skin was decaying and had turned a greyish-green colour, and if you really squinted you would probably find a cluster of maggots crawling out of it's face. Oh god, it's face was another thing. Richie immediately noticed the slight pigmentation on the mouth and chin, he wasn't immediately sure if it was dry blood but that made the most sense. If this truly was Eddie, he didn't want to know what else had stayed after his death.

"You've had a hard day, you idiot, you should be in bed," Eddie's corpse soothed, gently rubbing circles into his back, "Don't you know that a lack of sleep will increase your risk of developing cardiovascular disease?"

Corpse Eddie just continued to massage his shoulders and back as he stood there frozen. What was he supposed to do here, start talking to the corpse of the love of his life? Absolutely fucking not. He was not doing this right now.

If he had noticed it, Corpse Eddie didn't mention how Richie's breathing rate had begun to increase. He just continued to move his cold, dead hands across the other man's body.

"Jesus dude, your muscles are so fucking tense. You should probably see a doctor, this could be something pretty serious," Eddie had gotten closer to Richie now, and he could feel the cold air radiating off of him. It was like he'd stepped into a refrigerator, but if the refigerator was the dead body of his best friend.

He should call someone. Bill might be up, he tends to stay awake writing for a bit after midnight, but he didn't want to disturb him. Maybe Bev will be awake, she gets nightmares too. But then again, maybe they've stopped now Pennywise is dead. Or maybe--

"You can't ignore me forever, dickwad."

Right, of course. The corpse giving him a massage was self aware, great. Just his fucking luck.

"You're not real," he said, keeping his arms firmly planted to his sides.

"Do you really think that?"

He paused. Did he really think that? Of course, he knew that this wasn't actually happening, right? He'd lived through so much weird shit in his life, but there can't be more that he has to endure. He's just hallucinating, or maybe he dreaming. That's the more likely scenario here, but even so...

Slowly, he moved his hand up and gently placed it over Eddie's.

"No."

\---

The following morning, the remaining members of the losers club decided to eat breakfast together and 'catch up', which was really just a nice way of saying 'sit there in awkward silence and pretend nothing is wrong for an hour'. Still, the presence of other people was comforting, so Richie figured he may as well join them.

From across the table he could see Ben and Bev avoiding eye contact with each other, which was weird because usually Ben couldn't stop staring at her. In more usual circumstances Richie would have said something witty or 'funny', but he was a little busy processing everything that happened the night before so he left it.

Mike was the first to speak.

"So uh, did everyone sleep well?"

Silently, Richie chuckled to himself. Of course he didn't sleep well. He barely slept.

But right now was probably not the time to bring that up, so instead of that, he simply said, "yeah, I slept okay."

The others mumbled out vague agreements before returning back to the crushing nothingness they had been in before. There's nothing worse than knowing something is going unsaid.

Eventually, Richie decided he'd had enough and got up to leave. He turned towards the door but felt a hand gently grab his wrist, it was Bill.

"Where are you g-going?" His friend had asked earnestly.

Richie simply shook him off and smiled, "Out, I wont do anything stupid, if thats what you fucks are worried about," he had stated matter-of-factly, trying his best to ignore the looks of hurt that crossed his friends' faces.

Bill frowned at him, "You know you can tuh-t-tell us anyth-thing, right Rich?"

How he wished that were true.

He didn't say anything, though. He just nodded and walked out the door, already imagining the shit they were saying about him behind his back.

\---

"Why did you come back here, Rich? Are you fucking stupid?" 

Richie was kneeled in front of the kissing bridge he had carved his and Eddies initals in so long ago, being lectured by the hallucination of Corpse Eddie about the health and safety regulations of a 120 something year old bridge.

"I know, I'm an idiot," he said, pulling a knife out of his pocket.

Corpse Eddie glared at him judgementally, watching as Richie began to dig the blade into the wood where two initials had long since faded.

"'R+E', What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Take a wild guess, Eddie."

Corpse Eddie could act oblivious all he wanted, Richie wasn't stupid (contrary to popular belief) and knew damn well that Eddie wasnt either. That's why the rotting, gore-torn thing in front of him wasn't /his/ Eddie. 

His Eddie was dead.

When he finished the carving, he got up and turned to face the figure that had been staring at him.

"Can I ask you something?" He asked, his voice flat and soft.

"Yeah, what is it?"

Richie paused, and let a tear slide down the side of his cheek. He felt pathetic, talking to a hallucination, but what was he supposed to do?

Through choked sobs, he managed to ask, "Are you really Eddie?"

Corpse Eddie's smile softned, but there was no emotion behind it. A hallucination can't have feelings after all, can it?

"What do you think I am, Richie?"

He knew what this thing he was talking to was, and he knew what he had to do to move on.

So, Richie wiped his eyes and took in a shuddering breath before uttering the words he so desperately needed to speak.

"You're not real. Eddie is dead, and that's something I have to accept."

The corpse Eddie nodded, neither confirming nor denying what Richie had said.

"You shouldn't push them away."

He knew that, god, he knew that better than anyone, but it wasn't that simple. If they could see him now... he didn't want ro think about it.

But, if today was going to be a day of facing hard truths, he may as well accept it. He should go talk to them.

Richie turned to look back at the carving and ran his fingers across the grooves, a sad smile creeping on his lips.

"I loved you, you know?" He said, turning back around to face Corpse Eddie.

But when he looked, there was nothing there.

Maybe there never was.

And maybe that's okay.


End file.
